


This Dance

by Theladyknight23



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: (unfortunately), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Gen, I texted my friend a joke about Persuasion and three minutes later this happened, Kitty/self-confidence, all the Bennet sisters are in University, dark academia is sharing a bathroom with your four sisters, grad school, in a crumbling house near campus, minor Lydia Bennet/Wickham, minor Mary Bennet/Charlotte Lucas, some more committed to their studies then others
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28784256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theladyknight23/pseuds/Theladyknight23
Summary: There, between two women Lizzie recognized from Gothic Horror last semester was Darcy, stiffly setting out his laptop, notebook and pens. As if he felt the weight of her gaze on him, he looked up suddenly. For a moment the rest of the class seemed to fall away. There was only Darcy, and those infuriating brown eyes staring back at her. Her cheeks felt faintly hot. Someone coughed, some pages were rustled, keyboards tapped, and Darcy abruptly turned back to his books.Lizzie adjusted the strap of her bag, and set her chin, frowning.This was going to be an interesting semester.---or: a grad student modern AU
Relationships: Elizabeth Bennet/Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jane Bennet/Charles Bingley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely your fault, L

“Lizzie! Have you heard?”

“Heard what, Mother?” asked Lizzie, awkwardly shifting her cellphone to her other hand, so as to relieve the pressure on her poor fingers, which were beginning to cramp under the weight of three heavy plastic bags full of groceries.

“I was just telling your Father—”

“Telling Dad what?” demanded Lizzie, continuing to march down the street. It was starting to rain.

“That I’ve just been talking to Mrs. Long and she told me that she heard from Mr. Morris that one of the Bingley boys is attending university with you girls! Do you know how much his family is worth Lizzie??”

The tote bag of library books began to slip down her shoulder and Lizzie groaned. Mrs. Bennet took this as an invitation to launch into a detailed explanation of Charles Bingley’s ancestral tree, wealth, connections and supposed bachelor status. Lizzie, unfortunately, did not actually need this lecture to inform her that Bingley was in town. The political science graduate student offices were directly across English lit, in a decrepit building shunted to one of the corners of campus. Bingley, a wide grin across his face, had happily introduced himself and fellow grad student Fitzwilliam Darcy to Lizzie last year after they bumped into each other near the water fountain. Darcy had been an awkward tall presence at his friend’s side, more interested in studying the posters hanging on the wall than looking at her. Lizzie could periodically hear Bingley’s loud laugh cutting through her headphones and the thin walls of their offices, walls that did not even attempt to reach the ceiling and tended to let any and all sounds through. She was fairly certain that they were both pre-law. Needless to say, she was all too familiar with Charles Bingley and the company he chose to keep.

She attempted to interject through her mother’s babble of words, but to no avail. Finally, with all the subtly of a blunt instrument, Lizzie seized the brief moment in which her mother was forced to breathe to inform her that as she was almost home, and that as it was beginning to rain, perhaps they could continue this conversation at a later date. Her mother yielded when she realized that concluding her call with Lizzie would allow her to continue to spread the news. She hung up with a click and Lizzie sighed again, pulling a face. One would think that moving three hours away from home would ensure that one was forced to spend less time conversing with one's mother, but there was always at least two missed call and three Facebook messages waiting for her after a day of course work.

Lizzie turned the corner. Ignoring the two undergrad boys playing beer pong on their porch, she continued up the street, nodding to Mrs. Nancy, who was dragging her garbage pin to the end of her lane-way. Hertfordshire Street was an odd hodgepodge of university students and local residents, the spread of rotting couches set on front lawns slowly encroaching on a neighbourhood once dominated by fine old houses. At the end of Hertfordshire loomed her own Longbourn, the formerly grand exterior now sagging and worn, as if in disgruntled distaste at the state of the street. While many of the old houses on Hertfordshire had been cut up and divided into various flats and apartments, Longbourn had managed to escape this fate by the utter stubbornness of Great Aunt Madeleine, who refused to sell. When death deigned to take her, the house was willed to the Bennets. Longbourn had been crucial in convincing their parents that Jane and Lizzie (and after them, the rest of their sisters) should move away for university, with Mrs. Bennet finally conceding when she realized there was no better place but a large university for her girls to find wealthy husbands. She herself, after all, had attended university for the sole purpose of earning her MRS degree.

Lizzie swung the door open into the dark entryway and promptly tripped over a pile of shoes.

“Fuck,” she hissed, catching herself on the wall. “Lydia!” she hollered.

There was no response. Lizzie did not truly expect there would be. It was a Thursday night and Lydia was almost certainly already on the prowl, wielding high heels and lip gloss, Kitty trailing behind her.

“I’m home!” shouted Lizzie, dumping her backpack, groceries and library books on the worn wooden floors so she could shuck off her coat and boots. Her hair was wet, and so were her jeans. She needed some hot chocolate and flannel pyjamas, and maybe an Advil or three.

“Lizzie!” called Jane, “I’m in the kitchen.”

Gathering up her load once more, Lizzie made her way down the hallway, briefly pausing at the door to the parlour. As always, Mary was there at her piano, fingers pressing down on silent keys, a massive pair of headphones over her ears. There was something different about Mary when she was playing, a fierce rawness and passion she seldom showed without an instrument before her. Lizzie stood there for a moment, relishing in the uncanny feeling of watching music being silently played, a familiar sister so transformed, before continuing towards the light of the kitchen.

Jane was sitting at the counter on one of the barstools, her laptop and books spread out around her. She turned when Lizzie arrived and graced her with one of her soft smiles. How would Lizzie describe Jane? She was perfection incarnate, kinder, sweeter and more patient than Lizzie could ever hope to be. Even now, awash in the throes of coursework, blonde curls escaping her messy bun, Jane was the picture of loveliness. Jane was a teaching assistant this semester for not one, but two introductory early childhood education courses, and yet Lizzie knew that Jane would still be utterly composed, happily walking students through the assignment requirements, despite the fact that they were clearly spelled out in the syllabus. Lizzie, after but a day of wading through awkward sentences and Wikipedia citations, was fully ready to scream. And this after hearing that asshat Darcy spewing shit in the offices. 

“I brought sustenance,” said Lizzie, holding up the bags of groceries.

“Oh thanks, Lizzie dear,” said Jane sweetly, leaning back in her chair. “How was your day?”

Lizzie thought for a moment before carefully saying, “Spent too long marking the late submissions from last term and prepping stuff for tutorials this semester,” she unloaded the bags, shoving things haphazardly into the fridge. “And while I was in the office marking, I happened to overhear a conversation.” She turned back to Jane.

“oh?” Jane raised an eyebrow.

“Between a certain Mr.Bingley and Mr. Darcy. Bingley was telling Darcy it was time to start dating, and then Darcy complained that there was no one interesting to him and he was far too busy. To which Bingley interjected that some of the women studying English were ‘cute’, and ‘what about Lizzie?’”

“No,” gasped Jane.

Lizzie slammed the box of pasta down on the counter with perhaps more force than she had originally intended, “and then, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy had the nerve to say that I was tolerable, _but not enough to tempt him_.” She laughed bitterly.

“oh Liz,” said Jane, gracefully standing and carefully easing the pasta from Lizzie’s grip before she could crumple the box completely. “What a terrible thing to say about someone.”

“It’s fine,” said Lizzie, slumping down into the chair. “I couldn’t care less what an ostentatious asshole like Darcy thinks of me. The whole thing is ridiculous really.”

Jane hummed, setting about gathering the ingredients for the stir-fry.

“And saying that I’m ‘ _tolerable_ ’?” jeered Lizzie, stealing a piece of carrot off Jane’s cutting board. “What does that even mean?”

Jane only shrugged sympathetically.

Lizzie sighed. It was _fine_. Truly. She didn’t need Jane’s sympathy.

“Of course, after all of this, I receive a call from our dear Mother, who wants to talk at length about the wealth and prospects of Charles Bingley. As if I care an inch about a man who associates with someone as pretentious as Darcy.”

“Well at least you won’t have any classes with him, and from what you’ve said before, he doesn’t spend much time in the office building.”

“True,” said Lizzie, “that is the shining silver lining in all of this.”

Jane offered her one of her special sweet smiles, the one that assured you that everything would be alright. Lizzie couldn't count the number of times Jane had given her that smile. "Now go get out of that wet clothing, and I'll have dinner ready in a tick." 

Lizzie felt a grin spreading across her face. She didn’t deserve Jane.

“Thanks. I’ll be down soon to help you finish up.”

As she climbed the stairs to her room, Lizzie decided that was that as far as Fitzwilliam Darcy was concerned.

Or at least she thought it was, until Thursday morning when she walked into the first graduate seminar for ENGL561. There, between two women Lizzie recognized from Gothic Horror last semester was Darcy, stiffly setting out his laptop, notebook and pens. As if he felt the weight of her gaze on him, he looked up suddenly. For a moment the rest of the class seemed to fall away. There was only Darcy, and those infuriating brown eyes staring back at her. Her cheeks felt faintly hot. Someone coughed, some pages were rustled, keyboards tapped, and Darcy abruptly turned back to his books.

Lizzie adjusted the strap of her tote bag, and set her chin, frowning.

This was going to be an _interesting_ semester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "May I Have This Dance" by Francis and the Lights 
> 
> I'm not sure how often this will update, but I do have a full outline and far too many ideas


	2. Chapter 2

What followed was what she might call forty-five of the most excruciating minutes of her life. Lizzie would however hesitate at using those precise words, if only because they carried the implication that Darcy’s words had any impact on her, which they most decidedly did not. She cared nothing for Darcy, the flippant declaration she overheard serving to merely lower her already fundamentally unfavourable opinion of the man. She had far too much to worry about—Ph.D. applications, course work, marking, tutorials to plan—to spare even the smallest of moments thinking on the subject of Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Labelling this short graduate seminar ‘the most excruciating minutes of her life’ would also, unfortunately, be inaccurate, as she had the dubious honour of growing up surrounded by her mother and sisters (Jane, of course, being largely exempt from this, though her angelic nature led to a propensity for being such a complete pushover that sometimes Lizzie just wanted to scream and shake her).

Regardless of her exact thoughts on the subject, Lizzie was desperately relieved that the class was only a quick session, intended to introduce the syllabus and answer any questions. Lizzie kept her eyes and mind fixed intently on the professor, taking careful notes with a hand that clenched her pen just a little too tightly. She did not wonder what Darcy, supposedly a political science MA student, was doing in an English graduate seminar on victorian popular literature.

"Do we need to buy these specific editions from the bookstore?" 

Despite her attempts to completely ignore him, Lizzie couldn’t help but turn and glare when Darcy raised his hand, asking a question that was surely obvious to anyone versed in the rhythms of an English class. If the professor had gone through such efforts as to mark down the specific edition of the text, even highlighting the editorial introductions in the course syllabus, it was abundantly clear that the exact edition _did_ actually matter. At least Darcy had the decency to look suitably embarrassed when Dr. Wentworth answered his question in her patient tones. Lizzie allowed herself a moment to bask in his discomfort—though honestly, the man looked so close to just fleeing the room that she found herself almost feeling bad for him. _Almost_ being the operative word here.

When the class ended, Lizzie quickly gathered up her things, stuffing them into her bag. Darcy was already standing at the front of the room, waiting to talk to Dr. Wentworth. He was watching her when she stood, and for a brief instant they made eye contact once more.

There was something about his face. He wasn’t gorgeous like the men Lydia would occasionally bring by the house but there was something _more_ in his features. Something that made her want to keep looking.

Lizzie immediately turned away. Sweeping out of the classroom, she sent a quick text to Charlotte and made her way down the stairs.

\--

Ten minutes later she was relating it all to Charlotte, sipping from the massive cup of tea Charlotte had plunked down on the table before her. Lizzie had offered several loud declarations of love, worship and adoration while seizing up the paper mug and cradling it to her chest. The morning had been far far too long, and no one made a perfect cup of Earl Grey like Charlotte. Bringing the cup to her lips Lizzie added a couple of delighted moans for good measure, and Charlotte laughed, shaking her head. Charlotte was still dressed in the black apron uniform of the campus café, _The Little Spoon_. How she balanced working as a barista, acing her courses, and serving as a research assistant for her supervisor was truly beyond Lizzie. Charlotte was pragmatic, intelligent, hardworking and diligent to a fault. Lizzie felt practically lazy beside her (though she reminded herself she did have the arduous task of wrangling her sisters in addition to her own schoolwork).

Charlotte and Lizzie had met the year before, in a gender studies class Lizzie had been taking for her minor, which Charlotte had managed to squeeze in amongst her Economics courses. They had become friends almost instantaneously, finding in the other a kindred spirit. Charlotte also had far too many siblings (though her's were all blessedly living far away) and an overbearing mother who adored gossip.

“And then!” said Lizzie, continuing her tale of the events of the class, “Darcy had the audacity to ask a stupid question about the syllabus.”

Charlotte nodded patiently, but then added, “Lizzie, I know he said some rude stuff about you, and I do fully support you, but have you thought, _maybe_ , that you’re being a little hard on Darcy?”

“I don’t care,” Lizzie said decidedly. “He doesn’t like me, so that gives me free rein to not like him in turn. It’s only fair.”

“He is awfully rich though,” noted Charlotte.

Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “Money isn’t everything,” she declared, but bit her tongue when she saw a tight expression pass over Charlotte’s face.

Charlotte who worked every hour of the day, before going back to her tiny basement apartment to do it all again the next day. 

Lizzie quickly took up the thread of her speech once again and added, “But you’re right. He’s filthy rich, and I guess that might count for something. Half the girls spent the seminar mooning over him.”

Charlotte smiled, “but not you.”

“Oh hell no. He’s _tolerable_ , but not handsome enough to tempt me.”

They both burst into laughter at that, a great howling laughter that caused the people at the table beside them to look over in confusion.

Lizzie laughed and laughed and decided that having Darcy in the same seminar might not actually be quite so awful. She was bloody smart and loved a good debate. He was about to regret he had ever dared wander into her world.

Seeing her smirk, Charlotte shoved her shoulder and demanded to know what Lizzie was thinking.

“I’m thinking,” said Lizzie, “that I’m going to mop the floor with Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing Anne and Fred in because I'm halfway through Persuasion and I'm obsessed with those dorks


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to anyone who has taken a chance on this fic. It is a gift for a friend who has put up with far too much Witcher talk from me (while also serving as an opportunity for me to indulge my obsession with that *hand flex* scene)

She had been at it for what felt like hours, and still her mind slipped and slid, refusing to latch on to the words on the page before her. For the fifth time in so many minutes, she began the page again, only to find her mind drifting away halfway through Benedick’s speech.

Her thoughts turned, as they did far too often these days, to the Victorian lit class.

The class she shared with Darcy.

It had been almost three weeks now, and she found herself looking forward to each seminar with something encroaching actual excitement. She liked most of her classmates, the syllabus was great, and after a year under her supervision, she had already known Dr. Wentworth would be wonderful. Anne was so good at balancing class discussion with extra expository information, while still creating space for everyone to speak.

And yet, if she was being truly honest with herself, none of this was the real reason she looked forward to every Thursday with such anticipation.

It was Darcy.

She still couldn’t believe it.

She had arrived at the second lecture armed with a stack of notes, thoroughly prepared to fight tooth and claw. She had been pleasantly surprised to find that Darcy had similarly prepared. While Lucy Walker dithered her way through a personal reflection of the novel, both Darcy and Lizzie waited with their hands raised. Darcy had two footnotes to support his argument, while Lizzie’s idea was fortified with a journal article on the subject and a perceptive question she posed to the entire class, which was met with Dr. Wentworth’s soft smile of approval.

The next classes carried on in much the same pattern. Both Darcy and Lizzie would arrive readily prepared for the seminar, and the discussion would enviably descend into a lively debate. English lit wasn’t his subject, and she could see that, both in his diligent research, and the rare instance when he offered an idea as if it was shiny and new, ignorant to the fact that it was already a major branch of study (“yes, I think we’ve thought a little bit about psychoanalytic theory,” Lizzie had retorted, “for over sixty years”). She could tell he was anxious about speaking in front of the group, particularly in such new territory, yet every seminar he swallowed his fear and offered his ideas with intense care. 

She may not like him, but she did respect that.

The seminar was a safe space—a contained space—to productively and passive-aggressively hash out the tension that lingered between them. They could talk, and snap, and point out the flaws in each other’s arguments. Sometimes, on the rarest of occasions, they would even band together to defend particularly beloved ideas from other classmates' attacks.

They would talk and talk, but when the seminar ended, they would pack up their bags and leave, carefully timing their exit so as to avoid rubbing shoulders on their way out. In class they were ‘Darcy and Lizzie’, those two opinionated, antagonistic grad students "monopolizing every fucking conversation" (“there is some serious sexual tension between those two,” Lizzie overheard Lucy saying to Kate in the bathroom). But after class, they were nothing to each other. They went their separate ways and carried on with their day.

And that was fine.

It was.

An alarm suddenly blared, jolting her from her thoughts. Pulling off her headphones, she reached for her phone to pause the Dario Marianelli score and stop her Pomodoro timer. She had set it for an hour, in the desperate hope that such a big block of unbroken time would help her get through the rest of _Much Ado About Nothing_ so she could start marking. So much for that idea. The best of intentions and all that. 

There was an alarming number of texts waiting for her.

Frantically scrolling down, Lizzie hissed a string of swears under her breath.

**Jane:** heading over to your office in fifteen. There is that new place in Carter Hall that I want to try for lunch if that works? (sent 11:35)

**Jane:** sorry caught a little caught up, leaving now! (sent 11:50)

**Jane:** Just outside your office, the outer door seems to be locked? (sent 12:08)

**Jane:** Lizzie? (sent 12:15)

**Mary:** what are we planning for dinner? (sent 12:17)

**Jane:** I’m inside now, waiting outside your door. Don’t worry about running late, I’m having a nice chat with Charlie (sent 12:20)

**Jane:** Lizzie? (sent 12:25)

**Lydia:** Can u pick up more dry shampoo on ur way hme Kitty used all mine up!! :( :( (sent 12:26)

**Mum:** [Facebook attachment unavailable] I think you girls should try this! (sent 12:30)

**Jane:** You’ve probably just gotten caught up in some work but please give me a call when you get this, so I know you’re alright. I’m going to go get some lunch with Charlie. Hope you don’t mind! (sent 12:33)

Lizzie swore once more, earning a glare from the woman the next study cartel over. Offering a half-hearted apologetic smile that she immediately dropped as soon as the woman looked away, Lizzie set to work cramming her studying-at-the-library mess into her tote bag, stuffing in notebooks, pens, sticky notes and her noise-cancelling headphones in a great unorderly heap. As soon as she was free of the silent study area, she called Jane, listening to the dial tone as she quickly made her way down the spiral stairs to the main floor. Jane didn’t pick up. Scowling, Lizzie tried calling again.

Weaving around oblivious undergrads, she raced out of the library and started for her office. She couldn’t believe she had forgotten their lunch plans! And Jane had been so excited to schedule something special just for them now that they were both spending most of their time on campus.

Jane still didn’t pick up, so Lizzie left a message with her machine.

“Hey! It’s me! I’m sorry I’m terrible, I’m on my way to the office now. Are you still there?”

Continuing to hurry across campus, she typed out and sent a text with the same message (though riddled with spelling errors no doubt), just narrowly avoiding collision with a floppy-haired boy on a skateboard in the process.

*

The office was empty when she arrived, and the history Ph.D. sitting with his door open at the end of the hallway had no idea who Lizzie’s sister was, or where she might have gone.

There was still no message from Jane. Lizzie felt like a truly awful sister. She had spent the last hour daydreaming and being generally useless and unproductive while Jane was wasting time waiting for her. 

Slumping into her rickety old chair, held together with an assortment of duct tape patches and hope, Lizzie dismissed the text from her mother, told Mary she was thinking leftovers or maybe pasta, and reminded Lydia that she was perfectly capable of buying her own dry shampoo. She half expected a text from Kitty next, with a link to an inane BuzzFeed quiz or something.

There still was no word from Jane, and Lizzie’s stomach was starting to rumble. Lunch for one then. She’d grab something from the caf and maybe a nice chocolate bar to make it up to Jane, and then come back here and try to actually get some reading done. Stuffing her wallet into the pocket of her jacket, she locked the door and set off.

She was a good halfway across campus when the skies opened, and it began to pour with a fury. It was the kind of rain that took it upon itself to absolutely drench everything as quickly as possible. 

Lizzie thought longingly of her umbrella, safely tucked away in her bag in a nice dry room. “Shit.”

Baby Spoon (the tiny offshoot of the proper café) was close, so she ducked inside, abandoning hopes of sushi from the caf.

She just hoped Jane hadn’t gotten caught in this downpour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by one of Dario Marianelli's top 0.05% Spotify listeners  
> (y’all the Atonement score fucking slaps)


	4. Chapter 4

Looking from Caroline Bingley’s contemptuous stares and impossibly elegant bites, to the waves of stiff tension emanating from Darcy, to golden-retriever-in-human-form Bingley gamely attempting to draw them all into some kind of conversation, Lizzie asked herself once again what the hell she was doing here.

“Oh, I have another one! If you were stuck on a desert island and could only see one kind of bird again for the rest of your life, what kind of bird would you want to see?” chattered Bingley.

Caroline audibly sighed and Darcy continued to keep his eyes on his fork, making his way through his dinner with the utmost concentration. Lizzie herself was rather stumped by this question, as it was one she had never been posed, nor had ever expected to be posed.

She was opening her mouth, bid by the manners driven into all the Bennets as children to offer some kind of reply to this question, no matter how ridiculous it may be, when a great hacking cough sounded from elsewhere in the house.

Bingley was on his feet in an instant, rattling all the silverware (and it really was silverware and Lizzie truly was out of her depth).

“I’ll go!” he cried.

Caroline gracefully lifted her wine glass, before Bingley could endanger it again with his flailing. “Don’t you think it would be more appropriate for her sister to see to the invalid?” she said, voice slippery with something that landed halfway between scorn and boredom.

“Oh! Right-right!” said Bingley, sitting back down, once again setting the plates rattling. “Unless, Lizzie, you—”

“I’ll see to my sister,” said Lizzie quickly, desperate to go, if only to simply escape this ridiculous situation. She set aside her napkin and slid out of the massive oak chair. She vaguely remembered the way to the spare bedroom Bingley had set Jane up in, so she quickly waved off Bingley’s offer to take her there before he could jump up once more.

After a couple of misstarts, she finally located Jane’s room.

“Oh Lizzie, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to disrupt your dinner,” started Jane, when Lizzie slipped inside.

Lizzie held up a hand, “don’t you dare apologize you just saved me from a truly horrendous dinner. Did you know that take out for the Bingley’s means steak dinners from one of the upscale restaurants on fifth street? I think Caroline Bingley would actually expire if she was forced to eat take-out pizza. She’d smell the grease and just spontaneously combust.”

Lizzie settled on the bed beside Jane, checking Jane’s temperature with the back of one hand. It was still scorching hot.

“But enough about me—how are you doing? That cough sounds terrible.”

“It is,” said Jane, letting out a little laugh before descending into a fit of hacking once more.

Lizzie offered her some water from one of the three glasses set on the bedside table when Jane finished, and she drank gratefully.

“Cough drop?” Lizzie offered, looking over the collection of supplies Bingley had amassed. It looked like half a pharmacy had been carefully arranged, ranging in usefulness from cough syrup to a cream that looked like it was for sunburns, which he must have mistook for some kind of VapoRub. Bingley had also purchased a teddy bear, with a bandage on its arm and a heart across its chest declaring ‘Get Well Soon’ in cherry pink letters. Lizzie picked this up and showed it to Jane.

“He’s sweet isn’t he,” said Jane, eyes soft.

“He’s silly, that’s what he is,” said Lizzie, but she tucked the bear beside Jane before tearing into a packet of cough drops.

“This is so embarrassing,” sighed Jane. “I’m sorry Lizzie.”

“Hey! Stop that—this isn’t your fault, if anything its mine.”

“I should have known I was close to coming down with something, I’ve been pulling long nights all week—”

“Jane,” said Lizzie firmly, “this is not your fault. Now get some rest. After dinner, I’ll figure out a way for us to get home.”

Jane weakly nodded. Lizzie wiped the sweaty blonde curls from her sister’s face and managed a smile. She would feel a good deal better about this when Jane was out from under Caroline Bingley’s roof. She also wanted—as much as she loathed to admit it—to call her Mother.

“How is she doing?” called Bingley suddenly, from beyond the door, and Lizzie jumped.

She turned to find him peeking through the doorway, face twisted with worry.

“I’ll be fine, truly,” offered Jane, voice a little frail. “I just need to sleep.”

“Oh good—well not good that you are sick, but good that you are feeling a bit better” said Bingley, smile beaming bright across his face. “Let me know if there is anything else that you need. Anything.”

Lizzie looked to the heaping pile on the bedside table, and back to Bingley's eager face. “I think we will be fine with all of this, but we will.”

Bingley nodded vigorously, his eyes lingering on Jane’s face for a moment before turning to leave, almost banging his head on the wall in his haste. With some repeated apologies he left, softly shutting the door behind him.

Lizzie laughed, and Jane managed a feeble grin.

“Was the date good at least?” Lizzie asked, and Jane didn’t attempt to correct her choice of words.

Hugging the ridiculous teddy bear closer she nodded. “It really was.”

Lizzie left Jane sleeping and headed back down through this opulent maze to the dining room. As she went, she thought back on the events of the evening, everything that had led her here to this moment. This moment of leaving her sick sister’s bedside to thank the Bingleys (and Darcy) for being such kind hosts. Of all the wild things to happen, this had to be the wildest.

*

It was just after 4 pm and she had been half home after finally managing a good chunk of productivity when her phone had rung.

“Jane!” she’d cried, almost dropping her bag in her haste to answer, “I’m so sorry I’m an idiot who got distracted—"

The voice that answered had most definitely not been Jane’s. “Hello? Lizzie? Sorry, this is Charlie Bingley, I’m with your sister. You see we were coming back from a spot of lunch and we got caught in the rain and then she started to feel unwell, so I brought her back to my house to recover and get some dry clothes and —”

It took far too many minutes for Lizzie to extract the details from a frantic Bingley.

“We’ve been so busy getting her settled I only just remembered to call you, I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said, voice heavy with remorse.

Lizzie had no time for that.

“What is your address?” she demanded.

The bus might have been faster, but bus passes were expensive, and Lizzie preferred walking. Usually. That evening she arrived at the Bingley Manor, a massive house on a very fancy street (no half rotting couches here), a sweaty mess, only to have Caroline Bingley in perfectly pressed business casual open the door and look her up and down with a leer. Lizzie had managed to paste on a smile, reminding herself again and again that this was for Jane. Bingley appeared and quickly conveyed her through the house to her sister’s bedside, where Jane was propped up amidst a pile of pillows and duvets, wearing a borrowed pair of pyjamas. Her lip trembled just a little when she saw Lizzie, and Lizzie immediately took over.

After piling her patient with medicine, rearranging pillows, and ordering Jane to take a nap, Lizzie escaped from the sickroom to track down some clean cloth to wet for Jane's head. Turning yet another corner, she had almost run straight into Darcy.

“How is your sister?” he asked, sounding utterly earnest.

All Lizzie could do was stare, attempting to reconcile her idea of Darcy in the classroom with this man standing before her, his brow crinkled in concern—had she known Darcy lived with Bingley? She must have—until her manners abruptly caught up with her.

“Fine. Well, not fine, but she will be. Thank you.”

Darcy nodded. “That’s good to hear. We were all worried.” He paused and took a breath. “You’ll stay for dinner?”

She hated this man, loathed him. He disagreed with her and argued with her at every turn. He was pretentious and far too full of himself.

But when he said it like that, the spirit of a gentleman, something that was close to kindness in his voice, she couldn’t say no.

*

“Thank you so much again,” said Lizzie.

Caroline idly tossed a hand, “Of course.”

Fucking commerce students, thought Lizzie, carefully keeping her smile in place.

It was quite a production getting out of the door.

At first, Lizzie suggested she and Jane take a cab, but Bingley immediately shot that down (which was good, Lizzie really didn’t have the money to spend on random cab fares). He insisted on driving them home. It then came out that Bingley did not actually have a driver’s licence. Bingley was in the middle of wheedling Caroline into driving them all and she was looking distinctly disgusted with the idea when Darcy abruptly spoke up.

“I’ll drive you.”

“I—” started Lizzie.

“That’s a chap!” shouted Bingley, jumping up and slapping Darcy on the back. “I’ll go get a carrier bag for all of Jane’s medicines.”

“That’s not really necessary,” said Lizzie but Bingley was already gone. She turned to Darcy. “You really don’t have to drive us, it’s fine, truly, I’ll figure out something else.”

Darcy stood. “I’ll drive you,” he repeated, and Lizzie gave in.

With Bingley’s help, Lizzie bundled Jane into the back of Darcy’s shiny black car, settling her on the fine leather of the backseat. She let Bingley slide into the back with Jane, watching as he carefully tucked a duvet around her, and set the bag of pharmaceutical supplies on the ground between them, the ‘get-better-soon’ teddy bear cheerily poking out the top of the bag. Bingley was staring at her sister with the closest human approximation of heart eyes, and Jane was looking back at him with a sweet smile that was practically a declaration of love.

Leaving the two love birds to the backseat, Lizzie reluctantly took the passenger seat, daring a quick glance at Darcy. He held the wheel with practiced ease, wearing a finely tailored wool coat, but there was still a stiffness to him, an inherent awkwardness. Even here, skillfully driving a clearly beloved car, he was still a little unsure around her. And that, she had to admit, was fair. After the events of the night, she felt like she was still finding her footing as well.

She gave him the address to Longbourn, and he only briefly blinked when she named a less than fashionable side of town.

She needed to say something, anything—"What did you think of _Jude the Obscure_?”

Darcy grumbled. “Depressing.”

Lizzie laughed, and they managed to spend the rest of the drive trading barbs at the expense of Hardy’s poor belaboured Jude, which was assigned reading for next week’s seminar.

They were home to Longbourn all too soon.

Lizzie looked back to confer with Bingley, but he was out of his seat almost immediately, hurrying around to help Jane out of the car. Despite her protests, he half carried Jane up to the house. Lizzie shook her head at his antics and grabbed the bag of medical goodies. She turned in her seat, and there was Darcy, patiently holding her door open. He held out a hand for her to take, his brown eyes steady and sure. At a complete and utter loss, Lizzie took the proffered hand, and let him help her to her feet. For a moment it was just the gentle press of his thumb against her hand, the smoothness of his skin, the way they fit together so intuitively. It felt medieval, and maybe slightly demeaning, but also kind, like he cared. Like he would be steady for them both until she stood on her own feet once again.

Darcy let go as soon as she was safely out of the car, but the heat of his hand, the way it felt around her own, lingered. For a brief instant, less than a sparking second, Lizzie briefly entertained the idea of grabbing his hand. To chase after that warmth. A burning, unfamiliar feeling fizzed in her chest. She didn’t know what to do with this.

Lizzie looked to Darcy, but he was already looking away. The hand that had held her own flexed, before disappearing into the pocket of his black peacoat.

“Thank you,” Lizzie said, and she meant it.

“Of course,” Darcy said, and she was fairly certain he meant it too.

Darcy returned to his car, and Bingley soon joined him, loping down the little path from the front door of Longbourn.

“Good night Lizzie!” Bingley called. “I already told Jane, but please keep me updated on her condition, and if you need anything else—”

“Thank you,” said Lizzie, cutting him off before he could continue to ramble. “I will. Goodnight Bingley. Darcy.”

She turned and headed for the door, where Mary, Kitty and Lydia were all peering out with confusion and delighted interest, a bunch of busybodies the lot of them. Lizzie herded them inside and sent them off to check on Jane. Leaning back against the closed door, finally, blissfully alone, she let out a long sigh and looked down at her hand.

Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t hate Darcy that much after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have teared up while researching get-well-soon bears


End file.
